


Maybe One Day, My Love

by HeartlessMemo



Series: Night Fall [1]
Category: What We Do in the Shadows (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, DILF Memo, M/M, Older Memo, Pining, Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26518420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeartlessMemo/pseuds/HeartlessMemo
Summary: "...It’s the deepest, darkest corner of the park; a lonely place, a forgotten place. As good a place as any to meet an old friend."26 years later. Guillermo sits by himself on his favorite park bench, but he's not alone.
Relationships: Guillermo de la Cruz/Nandor the Relentless
Series: Night Fall [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969768
Comments: 16
Kudos: 60





	Maybe One Day, My Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hot Cross Buns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24884155) by [kyrilu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu), [sistermichael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistermichael/pseuds/sistermichael), [walkwithursus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus), [weirdbitterdays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdbitterdays/pseuds/weirdbitterdays). 



> This is something a little different for me. A meandering little character study with a healthy dose of angst! I was inspired to write about Older Memo by the brilliant Bakery AU, Hot Cross Buns. I hope you like this!! Thank you to [weirdbitterdays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdbitterdays/pseuds/weirdbitterdays) for beta reading this for me!! Especially for helping me figure out Memo's exact age haha.  
> As always, comments and kudos are my Scooby Snacks. I will follow you around forever if you leave me nice words!

_Well, I've been 'fraid of changin'_

_'Cause I've built my life around you_

_But time makes you bolder_

_Even children get older_

_And I'm gettin' older, too_

_\--Fleetwood Mac, “Landslide”_

* * *

It’s nightfall.

Guillermo de la Cruz takes his time strolling down the empty park lane. Maple trees border the walkway on either side; their branches reach out overhead, blocking the starlight and blanketing him in shadow. A layer of iced-over snow covers the ground. Guillermo’s sensible sneakers crunch with every step. His movements are measured and cautious. He’s no longer the thirty-year-old man who raced through the snow in a bloody bathrobe. Nor is he the fierce warrior who swung to the rescue in a theatre full of angry vampires. Now his body moves with the knowledge of its own fragility. His curly hair is sprinkled liberally with grey, and the laugh lines around his eyes have deepened, but he’s still unmistakably _Guillermo_.

He passes several empty benches, intently making his way to _his_ spot. It doesn’t have the best view, nor is it the most comfortable seat, but it’s his. Guillermo’s lips curve in a smile as he comes to the solitary little alcove where he spends every Sunday night. An ancient, wooden park bench sits beneath a wizened old tree. Thick bushes surround the bench, pressing up against the backrest and depositing spiders on anyone who dares sit there. The paint has almost entirely flaked away from the smooth, wooden slats that make up the seat. It’s the deepest, darkest corner of the park; a lonely place, a forgotten place. As good a place as any to meet an old friend.

Guillermo sits. The bench is coated in ice from the recent storm and the cold immediately cuts through his slacks. He doesn’t mind. He stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and tucks his shoulders up to his ears against the chilly air. He doesn’t read a newspaper or check his phone. He simply sits and waits. He’s waiting for a feeling, impossible to describe. It’s the feeling of sitting in his little room under the stairs and noticing the curtain sway just a second before his master’s cold, pale hand rips it open. It’s the feeling of standing in his master’s crypt in the middle of the day and hearing him snoring faintly through the thick wood of his coffin. It’s the feeling of walking through the endless night, always searching, seeking, yearning, and feeling his master’s presence at his back like a comforting patron saint or a hungry wolf. 

He’s waiting for his master.

While he waits, Guillermo thinks about the week to come. He has to take his mamá to an appointment with her ophthalmologist on Tuesday. Her eyes are getting worse and worse, but she’s so damn stubborn about the cataract surgery. He sighs, his breath streaming out in a white cloud that quickly disperses in the cool air. He has the familiar recovery group on Thursday night. He has to remember to talk to Colby about the coffee. Work stuff. It’s funny. Work stress used to include finding viable body disposal sites and worrying about being arrested. Yet when he thinks back to that time, despite the fraught, damaged and exhausting relationship he had with his master and the other vampires, he can’t help but smile fondly. That part of his life is over now. He can look back on it without the sorrow he’d felt when he walked away. 

Well, with less sorrow, anyway.

A shadow deepens in the far right of Guillermo’s field of vision. A casual visitor to the park would never notice. Nandor has always been the perfect predator: silent and invisible until the moment of the kill. Guillermo just happens to be attuned to him. If he were blindfolded and dropped to the bottom of the harbor, Guillermo would still feel his master’s energy should he drift by on the surface, propelled by the oar-work of some hapless, new familiar. The image strikes him as unnecessarily gloomy. He always gets like this on Sunday nights. Thinking back to the way things used to be. 

Guillermo sits up straighter. He doesn’t turn his head or directly address the vampire he knows to be lurking just out of reach. That’s not their arrangement. Every Sunday morning he takes his mamá to church. But every Sunday night he comes here to hold a vigil for the dark deity to whom he once prayed. He feels Nandor’s eyes on him and, as always, he wonders how much he’s changed in the last week. Guillermo never used to worry about growing old. He always assumed he would be turned well before he had to worry about wrinkles or grey hairs. Does Nandor catalog the little imperfections? Does he mourn the loss of Guillermo’s silky, deep brown curls? Do his cheeks not look as rosy as they once did? Is his decidedly unvirginal scent less appealing? Guillermo finds himself wondering if the high blood sugar his doctor has warned him about would affect the scent of his blood.

A noise from the bushes interrupts his train of thought. It sounds like a very impatient twig snapping. Guillermo smiles.

“Let’s see…” He leans his head back and addresses the branches overhead. “I’m doing good. I joined a walking club in my neighborhood. That’s--um--a group of humans who walk together for their health. My doctor’s happy about it. It’s nice, even if it’s mostly catty soccer moms. I think they’ve adopted me as their gloomy, gay, middle-aged son.” He lowers his gaze to the slushy snow at his feet, rubbing the crick in the back of his neck. It’s dark in this corner of the park, but his round glasses manage to catch a stray beam of ambient light. “My niece is having a baby. Amá is so excited. It’s her first great-grandchild.” 

He thinks of Madelaine and feels a pang for Nandor. Even after everything--the years of gaslighting, tossing out crumbs of affection to string him along, the emotional manipulation--Guillermo is still capable of sympathy for his master. 

He falls silent, sniffling his nose a bit. He can feel a cold coming on. He probably, definitely shouldn’t be sitting in the frigid cold like this. But what would Nandor think if he didn’t show up? Would he assume that something had happened to Guillermo? Would he...stop coming himself? Guillermo shudders.

“Yeah...I’m doing well. Healthy, safe…” he trails off. A gust of icy wind hits the back of his neck and he imagines it’s Nandor’s cool breath. God, there was a time when casual physical intimacy was a second language between them. Now they can’t even acknowledge each other’s presence. Guillermo takes a shaky breath. “I wonder about my old master sometimes. _Nandor_.” He savors the taste of the name on his tongue. “I hope he’s doing okay. I hope he’s eating enough and taking care of himself. Remembering not to leave candles lit before he gets into coffin. I hope he’s happy.”

He swallows a lump in his throat. He used to cry. In the beginning, when the hurt of walking away was still sharp and fresh. It was torture, yearning to capitulate yet resisting. He would beg Nandor to step out of the shadows and hold him. He would demand that Nandor _force_ him to come back. Now, with the benefit of years of growth and a lot of therapy, Guillermo sees Nandor’s stubborn silence in those early days as the most precious gift the vampire has ever given him. _What had it cost Nandor?_ He wonders.

“Maybe I’ll see him again one day…” Guillermo muses. For the first time he turns around and looks into the impenetrable shadows surrounding him. He strains his eyes, focusing on the spot in the darkness where he feels his master the most. He imagines Nandor stepping forward and taking his hand like he did that night in Manhattan. Guillermo, 56-years-old and definitely too old for this shit, would swoon just like he did back then. Nandor would smile, his fangs denting into his lower lip and eyes squinting adorably. He’d take Guillermo into his arms and they’d finally share the kiss that’s hung in the space between them for more than half his human life.

The night is silent and still.

“Maybe one day,” Guillermo says with a soft smile. He stands, rubbing his stiff knees and shivering as the cold air bites through him. He pauses before leaving, training his eyes on the ground and murmuring in a barely there whisper, “Goodnight, master.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If it makes you feel better: I fully support Nandor turning Guillermo once he's old enough to be a GILF.


End file.
